


Defector

by Garonne



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7366432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a rainy night in Belgrade, a Soviet scientist knocks on Napoleon and Illya's hotel room door and announces that he wants to defect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defector

**Author's Note:**

> This was first posted to the LJ comm mfuwss for the New Beta Challenge. Many thanks to the comm members for their comments and suggestions! What I'm posting here is the revised version.
> 
> This fic is a rather grittier, bleaker take on MFU than the show itself.

.. .. ..

Napoleon was sitting on one of the beds, trying to read a newspaper in Serbian, when a knock came at the hotel room door.

Illya appeared at the bathroom door, his toothbrush still in his mouth, and raised an eyebrow at Napoleon. Napoleon shook his head; he hadn't been expecting anyone either. It was after midnight, the mission was over -- successfully so -- and all he'd been planning was to get a good night's sleep before their flight home tomorrow morning.

Illya snagged his gun from the bedside table and returned to the bathroom, taking up a concealed position behind the door. Napoleon drew his own gun, but held it out of sight while he opened the door to the corridor.

Outside the door stood a middle-aged man in tinted glasses, dressed in outdoor clothing and carrying a suitcase. When he spoke, it was in heavily accented English.

"Quickly, please let me in before someone sees me."

Napoleon recognized him as one of the scientists who were also staying at the hotel. The 10th Yugoslavian High-energy Physics Conference, according to Illya, was taking place in a nearby university. Napoleon had spoken to several of the conference delegates this morning, though they hadn't been of much help to him in his search for a pair of international jewel thieves affiliated with THRUSH.

"I'm afraid you'll have to tell me who you are and what you want first," he said.

"My name is Boris Kirillovich Filipov," the man said in an urgent but barely audible whisper. He glanced up and down the empty corridor before adding, even more quietly, "I want to defect."

Napoleon felt his eyes widen. For the moment, the corridor was empty, but they couldn't discuss this standing in the open doorway, where anyone might walk by. He stepped aside and let the man in, relying on Illya to keep him covered.

"Search him," Illya said, stepping into Filipov's field of vision.

Filipov jumped. He obviously hadn't been expecting a second person, and he eyed Illya warily.

Napoleon gave the man his most charming smile.

"Do you mind?" he said in polite tones, not that the man had much choice in the matter, with Illya's gun still trained on him.

Filipov was unarmed. He wasn't wearing a wire either. His suitcase contained several sets of clean underwear, some clean shirts, a couple of physics books, other innocuous sundries, and no secret compartments that Napoleon could see.

Napoleon stepped back and gave the man a long hard stare. Filipov looked back nervously.

"Ah, just to be clear, you mean defect from the Soviet Union?" Napoleon said. "You're a Soviet citizen?"

The man nodded.

"To the United States?"

"Yes! When I realised this morning that you were an American agent -- well, it seemed like the chance of a lifetime. I suppose you're with the CIA?"

"He's an UNCLE agent," Illya said. "And UNCLE, as you may be aware, is not an American organization."

Filipov's head whipped round to face him. He swallowed, obviously starting to feel uneasy.

Illya gave him a small, humorless smile.

"I'm afraid you may have made a small miscalculation, Comrade Filipov," he added in Russian.

The blood drained from Filipov's face.

Napoleon's mind was racing, trying to work out just how complex this situation could become. He shot a questioning look at Illya, meaning, _More information, please._

"Comrade Filipov is an extremely well known and well respected scientist in the Soviet Union," Illya said, which Napoleon took to mean: He has a KGB minder.

As if on cue, there came a knock at the door

Everyone in the room froze.

Napoleon glanced at Illya, who shook his head. _Do nothing._

In the dead silence of the hotel room, Napoleon could clearly hear the sound of footsteps: two men. They were walking away, and soon there came a knock at the next door along the corridor, and then the next, until finally the sounds faded away.

But Napoleon knew that when they didn't find their quarry elsewhere, they'd be back to this room a second time. They'd have seen the light under the door.

"You should have left your overcoat and suitcase in your room, Mr Filipov," he said.

He turned to Illya, whose frown had deepened into a scowl. He glanced from Illya to the bathroom door, eyebrows raised, and Illya nodded.

"Into the bathroom, please, Mr Filipov," Napoleon said briskly.

Filipov gaped at him.

Within seconds they'd bustled him in and closed the door behind him. The bathroom window was too small to climb out, and Filipov was safely contained for the moment, giving them time to think.

Illya and Napoleon moved to the other side of the room, out of Filipov's earshot. They didn't need to discuss what their duty as UNCLE agents was: not to get involved in this particular aspect of international politics. Going by the book, they should just dump Filipov back out in the corridor and let him fend for himself. But it was a little late for that now.

Napoleon sank down onto the bed, letting out a groan.

"If that idiot hadn't packed a suitcase, he could have gone back to his room, said he'd slipped out to the bar, or to meet a girl, or... I don't know, for a late-night chat about high-energy physics." He rubbed his temple, where a headache was starting. "Do you think there's any chance of getting him out?"

Illya didn't answer straight away, and Napoleon looked up to find his partner giving him a hard, tight-lipped look.

Napoleon felt a surge of guilt. Illya would never have asked him that question, he knew, if their positions were reversed. His irritation at himself gave his voice a sharp edge.

"In the other direction he wouldn't be facing a firing squad, though, would he?"

"Don't exaggerate, Napoleon. It's not the 1930s."

"What will he get, then? Ten years in the gulag?"

"Something like that, yes."

They stared at each other, a sudden spike of tension tainting the atmosphere in the room. Napoleon felt a surge of anger at Filipov for poisoning their comfortable evening together. The mission had been a success, they'd both come out of it without a scratch, and he'd been looking forward to an evening relaxing with Illya, a few hours respite before they had to travel home the next day. Maybe reading quietly together, maybe playing cards and watching Serbian TV with the sound turned off, maybe talking about what they might do during their stopover in Paris. Illya was his best friend, as well as the best partner he'd ever had. But one of the foundations on which that friendship was based was an unspoken agreement to keep certain cans of worms tightly sealed.

Napoleon grimaced.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you that."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"What do you want to do, then? Hand him over to the KGB?"

He saw the tension in Illya's body slip down one tiny notch. No longer rigidly still, Illya's stance held only the alert wariness that any uncertain and potentially dangerous situation merited. He sank down onto the bed beside Napoleon, looking like he had a headache of his own coming on.

"No, of course not," he said. He frowned, brain clearly going into overdrive. "Look, let's think this through. First off, the KGB are not on home soil here. Yugoslavia is a non-aligned country: they can't make too much of a fuss, or risk causing a diplomatic incident." He paused, thinking. "I think we can assume they know there's an American agent in the hotel. Maybe they even know you're from UNCLE."

"But there's a good chance they don't know you're here too."

It was a reasonable assumption: Illya had been away in the mountains for the past two days and had only arrived at the hotel late this evening.

"Unless they were already expecting me," Illya said slowly.

"What?"

"We're assuming Filipov is what he says he is. There's also the possibility that it could be a trap. For me personally -- or for UNCLE."

That gave Napoleon pause for a moment. His instincts told him Filipov was the genuine article. But if he were wrong, the price to pay would be very high indeed.

He let his shoulders slump.

"How did we end up in this situation?"

They both turned to look at the closed bathroom door.

Illya said something very uncomplimentary in Russian.

"That idiot. And all for what? A fridge-freezer and a Chevy convertible?"

Napoleon could have listed some of the more intangible reasons one might have for defecting, but he didn't. Illya knew them already, of course. However, he couldn't quite stop himself saying, "Isn't that rather easy for you to say? You're here permanently in the West."

"Permanently?" Illya echoed. "You think they'd let me stay once I'm no longer in UNCLE?" He shot Napoleon a sudden scowl. "Or did you expect me to defect too?"

Napoleon seemed to have a talent for saying the wrong thing today. Yes, of course he knew that in theory Illya could be recalled at any time. And it wasn't like Napoleon could just pop over for regular visits after that. It was something he generally tried to avoid thinking about, and now certainly wasn't the time for it.

He looked at his watch. How long would it take the KGB men to complete their first tour of the hotel and come back for a more thorough search?

"What if we just get him out of the hotel?" Illya said, thinking aloud. "Advise him to make for the Swedes, something like that. Does UNCLE have friends in the Swedish embassy in Belgrade?"

"We can't do that."

"A minute ago, you said -- "

Napoleon cut him off.

"Illya, if it's a trap, and he's a plant -- "

"I'm sure he isn't."

"So am I, but we can't take that risk. Or what if he simply changes his mind and tries to get back home -- which people often do, you know. Then it would all come out, and UNCLE-Soviet relations would be set back years -- and your neck would be on the chopping block."

"I'm willing to take that risk," Illya said stubbornly.

"On your own account, maybe. But not on UNCLE's. We can't."

Illya scowled. "No."

He lapsed into silence again, staring off into the distance, his gaze shuttered. After a few moments, Napoleon got to his feet and went to open the bathroom door.

Filipov was sitting on the closed toilet seat, his suitcase at his feet, his hands twisted nervously together. He looked up when the door opened, his expression a mixture of hope and apprehension.

"I'm afraid we can't be of any help to you, Mr Filipov," Napoleon said briskly.

Filipov just went on staring at him. Napoleon wondered if he were even taking the words in. He looked almost too nervous and keyed up to process anything said to him.

"It's probably best if you don't linger, you know," Napoleon added. He stood aside from the door, body language inviting Filipov to come out.

Filipov's mouth fell open, and his face turned even paler than before. He blinked at Napoleon in a mixture of confusion and slowly dawning dread.

"But, but, but -- "

Napoleon had intended to fall back on officialese about UNCLE's regulations and mandate. But in the face of Filipov's horror, he couldn't.

"I'm sorry, Mr Filipov," he said gently. He wanted to advise the man to make for the nearest Western embassy, even give him the address, but he knew he couldn't.

He ushered Filipov out of the bathroom and across the bedroom, keeping a close eye on him all the while. He half-wondered whether he should expect some dramatic gesture of desperation -- whether Filipov would threaten them or try to fight. But Filipov was not a man of action, and he allowed himself to be escorted out into the corridor without a fuss, still looking as though he didn't quite realize what was happening. Napoleon shut the door behind him, feeling like he'd just thrown a lead-weighted kitten in the river.

He turned back to Illya, who was looking rather sick himself. There was silence in the room.

Illya made a sudden, impatient noise and flopped down on one of the beds, fully clothed. He appeared to be staring up at the ceiling. Napoleon sat on the other bed. He opened his newspaper again, but he couldn't manage to concentrate.

They waited.

Half an hour later they were disturbed by a knock on the door again, this time not a polite rap but a hammering.

"Open up!" a voice called in Serbian. "Politsia!"

They exchanged glances. Illya went to answer the door.

The two KGB men on the other side presented themselves as Yugoslav policemen. Illya let them in, not particularly graciously, and showed them his UNCLE ID in response to a request for their papers. One of the KGB men searched the bathroom, under Illya's watchful eye, and the other went through the bedroom. Napoleon gave the latter his most insincere smile over the top of his newspaper.

"Don't forget under the bed," he advised, earning himself a dirty look.

There were not many places one could hide a fully grown man in the hotel room, and after a thorough search the KGB agents were forced to admit defeat. They apologized -- not very convincingly -- for the intrusion and left. Illya shut and locked the door behind them.

"So he's still on the loose," Napoleon said quietly. "At least for now."

Illya grunted. He disappeared into the bathroom, and after a few seconds Napoleon heard the tap running: Illya had gone back to brushing his teeth.

Napoleon went to the window and looked out, standing to one side of it from long-ingrained habit. He was imagining Filipov out on the dark streets of Belgrade, making for who knew where. His fate was out of Napoleon's hands now, dependent on other things and other people: on the vagaries of chance, on Filipov himself, on the KGB, on faceless bureaucrats in back rooms.

He heard Illya come back into the room and turned to face him. He remembered Illya, an hour ago, saying scornfully, "You think they'd let me stay?"

"What?" Illya demanded now, clearly catching the odd expression Napoleon knew he must be wearing.

"Just thinking about... the future."

"I rarely do."

Illya said it sharply, but his expression softened for a moment as he looked at Napoleon. He switched out the main light, so that the room was lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamps.

"Don't think about it, Napoleon. Go to sleep."


End file.
